Salva Nos A Hostibus
by Curious Onlooker 18
Summary: Concealed in the bowels of the HMS Surprise, the veiled enemy lies in wait. But is the enemy really the phantom-like monster the men have imagined? [Movie-verse]
1. Pour être sûr

I have only seen the standard version of Master and Commander: Far Side of the World, during and after which I have fallen in love with the entirety of the rich and intriguing story. I do realize that there are twenty or so Aubrey/Maturin books by Patrick O'Brian but I have not, of yet, had chance enough to read them. As such, this tale is set in movie-verse. I will most likely revise any little details (excepting the French/American enemy switch) after I am able to read the books so please bear with me. nn

Oh, I should also warn you that this may be a bit Mary-Sueish. I am not able to tell the difference between OC/Canon romances and flat-out Mary-Sues, so if you sense me drifting too far into the latter, please do inform me.

**Title:** Salva Nos A Hostibus (_Save us from the enemy_)

**Author: **Curious Onlooker 18

**Rating: **PG (until otherwise noted)

**Summary:** Concealed in the bowels of the frigate, the veiled enemy lies in wait. But is the enemy really the phantom-like monster the men have imagined?

**Pairing:** Canon Character (TBA) and Beatrice (OC)

**Disclaimer:** All characters, excepting Beatrice, belong to the beloved O'Brian. Props also to Peter Weir for bringing O'Brian's novels to the big screen so that people, such as myself, with their ever present bibliophobia, could also partake and enjoy in the naval adventures.

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Chapter 1 

The sounds of small glass containers clinking against one another were likened to crickets in that darkened room. Swaying gently with the waves, the hammock rocked it's occupant from her light sleep. A small hand gripped the edge of the canvas and slowly rolled herself to her feet. Shuffling could be heard before a small candle illuminated the interior. The tiny cabin seemed far larger than it had only a few weeks before… back then it had been cramped but homey despite it. Now the wood-paneled room felt so isolated and cavernous that she felt so very alone staying within it's walls. Moving in time with the lapping tides, the woman slipped her small form into a uniform, and placed a and went above deck to view the rising of the noon-time sun over the nearby island chain.

"Salut, Renard," she yawned, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The similarly dressed young officer chuckled as he watched her leaning upon a thick roping to maintain her balance.

"Bonjour, mon beau garçon." He was greeting with a withering glare. In truth, even dressed in a young boy's garments and with eyes still puffy from sleep, she was still radiant in his sight. "Come now, what is a woman of your delicate constitution doing up before two in the afternoon?" The glare became more steadfast and he laughed again as she ignored the question and sat down upon the deck with her back to the railing. Seeing that the Capitaine and his commanding officers were not about, the young gentleman removed his cap, and sat down besides her. "You know that I am only joking, Beatrice. It saddens me to see you so somber. Will nothing elicit a smile?"

"I do not mean to offend, Renard," forcing a small smile that lacked mirth before squinting towards the large sails and ship's hands above. The agility of the men among the ropes and thick sails never failed to fascinate her. Sensing that Renard would not be appeased, she returned her gaze to his friendly face.

"Forgive me, mon ami. You know that I have not been myself of late." He sighed and before he had a chance to bring it up, she spoke quickly. "I would rather not discuss his death. Not just yet." An uncomfortable silence fell and she wished to put the matter out of her mind once again. "Will the Capitaine allow us to explore the island once we find fresh water?"

"I should think so, mademoiselle. I fail to see how anyone could deny your requests." He sighed and rose to his feet and offered his hand to her with the utmost formality. She hated when he got like this, but she accepted the hand and thanked him. He didn't look back as he resumed his duties. How is it that on a ship-full of people, she was made to feel so very alone? She looked out to the islands, barely able to make out the fanciful creatures as the frégate sailed slowly through the clear blue waters.

More than a mile away upon the very island Beatrice watched, Dr. Stephen Maturin, having just been denied his flightless cormorant, was looking past a species of beetle as the _Acheron _came into view.

* * *

Straight-backed, the Capitaine of the _Acheron _purposely strode the deck of his powerful ship. Despite the sweltering conditions and the thick uniform, he was without a single drop of sweat upon his brow. His thick black hair was tied in a messy ponytail beneath the sweeping capitaine's hat. He had a habit of pacing to and fro lately - ever since the unexpected sighting of the _Surprise _on their tail before the turn around Cape Horn. It had been frustrating enough to lose the easy target in the fogbanks a month before, but to have the little frigate trick him into the blind chase of a decoy while it snuck up on his stern was unfathomable. Constant vigilance was the only answer. He had been reckless before but he would not allow the British captain of the pursuing ship to outwit him again. 

The men went about their work upon the deck around him, the midshipmen and officers overseeing their tasks with utmost care. As he approached the quarterdeck abaft the mainmast, he saw the other cause for his concern standing alone and watching as the animals along the shore observed their passing. She should have never had to witness the death of her father to fever, but the daughter of Docteur De Vigny was resilient - even while her father lay dead besides her she proceeded to nurse the _Acheron_'sstill injured crew. She should never have stowed away on his ship, and though he was not a superstitious man, her discovery aboard had left an ominous air about their mission. Still, he could not but help feeling grateful that even in mourning, she was able to take up the duties of her father in his stead.

As she saw him approach, she tipped the cap upon her head and looked out to the shores again. He nodded and said nothing, sometimes it was best to say nothing. He didn't know her well - her father had been a close friend to his brother, but beyond that, he hadn't delved all to greatly into his late surgeon's private matters. All he knew was that this girl was now an orphan and little could be said to lessen her melancholy. It was a souring cloud that hung about her and he was nearly sick to death of it. He walked past her, and below deck to reexamine the maps that had been taken from a British whaler they had looted and razed a week before.

After the Capitaine had retreated to the lower gun deck, Beatrice was left again to her thoughts. She knew that they would not be sailing home until the rest of the whaling fleet was found and it's precious cargo taken. Afterwards, they would need to parole the captured whalers from their brig at the nearest seaport before they could even think of heading back to France. All she wanted was to be home… the Capitaine would not allow her to depart the ship at any of the French ports until a new surgeon could be found. But it was her own fault that she was here now and she bitterly wished she had never come aboard at all.

As the afternoon activity lessened, the men went below deck to eat their food leaving a skeleton crew with sharp eyes upon the main deck. The sky was quickly darkening as the sun retreated behind the iguana-rampant islands. Having not moved from the quarterdeck for the entirety of the afternoon, Beatrice stood and stretched, her mind exhausted. She thought of getting food for herself, but she wasn't particularly in the mood; having seen the men cut the heads and shells from the tortoises they had caught, her appetite wasn't as it should have been.

Below, the men were tearing into their tortoise meat and scraping up the last of their mâchemourre. She hurried past, not wanting to know from what part of the animal the meat had come. Her cabin was just below the Capitaine's and she could hear the officers having a grandiose time. Her father had always joked that the Capitaine, having had so much experience playing his tuba, was full of hot air. And though the Capitaine was stiff-lipped above deck, with his officers and in the presence of wine, he was a different person entirely. As the slurred jokes and songs commenced, Beatrice sat in the cabin looking over all of her father's medical supplies. Tomorrow, she would have to inventory them again and insure that the medicines were still sealed and the bandages cleaned. She couldn't for the life of her imagine why her father seemed to love this oppressive life upon the sea. Une prison flottante...

She was roused early the next morning by the shouts of a sail and smoke upon the horizon. She heard the Capitaine moving about in his cabin and she rolled from her hammock and quickly dressed in order to find out what the commotion was. She could hear the men around her talking of a whaler that would be no match for them. So they had found the fleet, she surmised. She had no wish to see anyone die, but if the whalers would quickly surrender, the _Acheron _would not be so delayed in returning home. Pushing past the men down the coursie she ascended the ladder steps up to the half-deck. The officers had gathered on the quarterdeck and were examining a smoking ship upon the horizon through their spyglasses. She could feel the deck banking suddenly as the nostre home turned the frégate to intercept helpless whaling ship.

The Capitaine was shouting out orders as he came down from his observation - the ship was familiar and he again had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to know the name of the ship and her armament if any at all. The demi-culverin cannons were loaded on either side of the prow of the ship and the brig was made ready a few decks below. As with any engagement, Beatrice supposed she was to be ordered below to prepare for wounded, but instead, many of officers paid her no mind, though she wished that Renard would at least look at her.

M. Ambler, the Sailing Master of the _Acheron_, a tall graying man with soft eyes, encouraged her to follow the procession down the length of the deck and observe the whaling ship up close. She watched as the Capitaine situated himself on the prow and peered through his spyglass before she and M. Ambler did the same behind him. In her ear, M. Ambler was pointing out the nuances that distinguished the whaler from a normal nautical mind.

"See how the wind is spilling from her sails? The whaling men are not accustomed to quick work upon the riggings and have made it that much easier for us to take them." As he pointed out the filthy conditions of their sails and deck, the demi-cannons were fired and left a ringing in her ears making it difficult for her to follow the rest of her nautical lesson. The Capitaine had procured a bullhorn and began shouting in English as the distance swiftly decreased between the two ships.

"English whaler, _Syren_. This is _Acheron _of France. You have no possibility - no chance - but you have had warning. Stop now or we will destroy your ship. English whaler, this is your last warning: stop now or we will destroy you!"

Without warning of their own, the deck of the whaling ship exploded into chaos as men began running about and a British flag was hoisted. She heard the sound of guns from far above and saw men in Royal Marine garb peppering the deck. The roar of cannon fire was heard as the Acheron glided past the deceptive enemy vessel. Men were yelling on both sides of the waters, and she could barely hear the Capitaine yelling for her to go below and for the men to beat to quarters and roll out the long guns.

Thuds and splinters accompanied the gunfire and she saw that the mast was being shelled beyond repair. She ran past as fast as she could, hoping to avoid drawing a bullet of her own when, as quickly as it had started, the sounds of battle ceased. The Acheron had made it past the cunning _Syren _but at what cost?

In the silence that stretched for what seemed to be an eternity, a groaning sound could be heard above the moans of the men that lay at her feet. A hollow groan and cracking sounds soon followed and as she looked up, the mast began to topple right above her head. A dull pain could be felt around her hip, but too afraid to move, she watched the slow decent of the thick wooden beam come towards her as the seamen above jumped from their perches into the water below. As she waiting for the beam to drop down upon her, there was a grip about her waist and felt herself flying off of the deck and hitting the warm sea.

Coming to her senses, she fought for the surface of the water. Even so far below the decks, she could hear the crash of cannons ripping through the bowels of the frégate. Surfacing a distance away on her left, Renard appeared, coughing up water and wiping his long hair from his eyes and kicking towards her.

"Beatrice, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine… I'm fine. What happened? Are you hurt," she asked, holding on to his shoulders and examining the small cuts around his forehead.

"Comme ci, comme ça," he said with his boyish grin. His face grew serious as he looked to the aft section of the ship, and saw the approaching British moving alongside the crippled _Acheron_. If they did not move, they would be sitting ducks for the sniper-like Marines. He grabbed hold of Beatrice's upper arm and swam around the lower stern of the ship.

"Beatrice, listen to me… I have to get back aboard to fight these dogs off. I don't know what is going to happen, but it is not safe to come up until they are defeated. Promise me that no matter what, you will stay here. Promise me that you will stay safe." She made a move as if to protest, but he when he lovingly caressed her cheek and laid a soft kiss upon her forehead any protest she had died away. When he moved back, his eyes were tumultuous and she knew that if she did not promise, he would not leave her side.

"I promise, Renard." He allowed himself a large smile before he swam around to a series of ropes that had fallen over the side of the boat when the mast had collapsed. He did not look back as he climbed up to whatever fate had in store for him above. From her waterline hiding place, she could hear nothing in the ships above - all sounds of fighting had died away and she wondered how long she should wait before following Renard. Suddenly, the Capitaine's voice rang out, "_Acheron_!" Pistols discharging and the tinking sounds of sword upon sword filled the air. When a cannon fired again, she inched around the hull and looked up between the two looming ships. The mast was acting as a ramp, and men were crossing quickly onto the _Acheron_. A large hole in the larboard hulling of the French frégate could also be made out.

Suddenly, the odds didn't seem in favor of the French emerging victorious from this battle.

_"Promise me that you will stay safe."_

As the sounds of fighting continued, Beatrice swam around to the starboard side of the British warship and reached for rigging with which to pull herself up.

…_safe_.

Where was safe when both vessels were fighting to the death? Where else, but on the ship that had been left relatively unmanned when her crew departed to board the enemy?


	2. Se Débarrasser de L'évidence

**Disclaimer:** Most characers herein are protected under the copyright of Patrick O'Brian. Any that would seem unfamiliar to your book-happy eyes, will most likely be mine own.

* * *

Chapter 2: Se Débarrasser de L'évidence. 

The battle aboard the Acheron was reaching a pinnacle below deck as Beatrice pulled herself onto the deserted quarterdeck. High above, there were still one or two Marines picking off her comrades and she fought the urge to go aloft and knock their guns from their hands. What if Renard were killed? She dismissed the thought from her mind, and sought to hide herself. Crouching low behind the wheel, she relieved herself of the heavy French button coat and rolled the sopping material up beneath her arm. Wiping the wild tangles from her eyes, she crept forward and ducked below deck unsure of what to expect.

She found the smoky half deck with its full armament of many twelve-pounder guns lined up along the starboard and larboard ports. The captain's windowed cabin was close by and she could see smoke from the _Acheron _drifting past. A heavy feeling could be felt in the pit of her stomach and she struggled not to throw up at the thought of everyone she knew dead. The British took prisoners… surely they would leave some alive. Surely…

Sounds of men coughing could be heard below and she crept along still leaving a wet trail along the dirty gun deck. The berth deck and sick bay lay beneath and in the wavering light of the candles she could make out injured men laying upon cots and in strung hammocks that sprawled out from the too small bay. They were looked over by the loblolly boy while a large man with a wooden leg tended to both them and a large pot of food boiling over a healthy fire. Despite the fact that he was cooking during battle, he pegged man seemed to be doubly insane as he laughed uproariously about a cheeky little midshipmen ordering the invasion of the _Acheron _to be led by himself and the doctor.

Sticking to the shadows, Beatrice kept one eye upon at all times as she approached the outer periphery of the injured men and went to the crew's lockers. She knew that the slop room would most likely lay below, but in order to attract as little attention as possible, the key was to find heavily worn clothing and to not break into locked holds. Boxes lay strewn about the crew's berth deck with the names of their owners burned into their finishing. She began opening them and looking for clothes in which she might disguise herself. A chest named "Warley" held a large seaman's shirt and close by in a chest with the etching of "Nagle" she found a pair of trousers and leggings.

Changing in a dark corner, she gasped in pain as she pushed her trousers down. A sharp ache that was slick with warm blood was present on her outer hip. She could feel a dense object beneath the skin and she worried that she would have to extract what she suspected was a musket ball on her own. She wiped the blood away with the dark uniform, then tore a strip of cloth from her clean portion of a second shirt she had found in Nagle's trunk and gingerly wadded it up about the wound. She could not risk approaching the dispensary and would need to find the doctor's cabin if she was to could clean and examine the wound. She tussled her wet brown tresses about her face until she was assured that they were nearly covering her unfamiliar visage from the crew.

Taking, the old and now bloodied uniform in hand she looked to the officer's quarters. The men had still paid her no mind, which was a blessing in and of itself, but she was taking no chances and she slinked to the back of the small hall and momentarily paused behind the pantries. A smell indicative of a privy wafted near the first door on her right, so she tried the second only to find it locked up tight… the purser's, no doubt. After finding the door adjacent to this unlocked, Beatrice slipped in, leaving the door ajar just enough to see that the interior was surprisingly bare. She very much doubted this could be the doctor's compartment. Peaking out from the door, she stealthily exited and entered into the next habitat across the hall.

This one definitely seemed more on par with what she would expect of a man of science. Light from a number of candle-wick lamps were illuminating the many samples of flora and small insect-like fauna that adorned the desks and jars along the walls. Books on anatomy, nature and various disciplines of science were stacked around the room and in hurried piles on the shelves. She looked around for bandages and found them in a storage space to one side of the work desk.

Muffled, the sounds of fighting continued above as she removed the make-shift cloth bandage from her wound. The bullet was not far beneath the surface but she worried that cloth from her uniform could have entered in as well. She laid out the soiled French attire and looked for the point of entry. There was only a small slit indicating where the bullet had entered.

She breathed a sigh of relief and looked inside the storage box for a cutting utensil to extract the metallic invader. She found a rolled up canvas pouch that had odd bumps protruding from beneath the thick surface. Upon further inspection, a number of what seemed rather crude and oddly shaped utensils for surgery were found within. She picked up a small scalpel of sorts and a small pair of scissors and set them down upon the table. Bringing a lantern nearer to her wound, she swabbed as much blood as she could from around the wound using a small piece of bandage. She then sterilized the scalpel in the small flame and with slight hesitation, made a quick incision into her skin very near to the bullet's location. She applied pressure and heard the _thunk _of metal upon the floor as it dropped from her body.

The pain was not too great but she worried that two open wounds would inevitably lead to infection - especially since she had been swimming in the bacteria laden sea. After swabbing the blood from the incision and the bullet wound, Beatrice looked to the shelves for an familiar pink ointment that all ships carried and found it hiding behind a tiny cage out of which peered a large beetle with a curved, lance-like nose.

She quickly applied a small portion of the salve to her wound and dressed it. She then took a long length of the bandage roll and laid it down upon the tatters of the ripped shirt she had procured. Cutting the cloth to the dimensions of the bandage, she then hastened in tightly wrapping and securing her breasts beneath the shirt - compliments of Warley, of course. With that task completed, she wiped the blood from the cutting knife and sanitized it again in the flame before returning it to the canvas wrap and the trunk. The sounds of the battle had long since dissipated and the shouts of orders could be heard above. The British had been triumphant… and now they were moving their wounded - she didn't have much time.

As she was closing the heavy wooden case, a flash of light could be seen within and she leaned down to uncover a minute, rectangular mirror. She peaked in, wondering if she could fool the British with her ruse only to find that she had blood streaks all about her face. She had to fight the urge to clean the darkening smudges away as she realized that they would only aid her by this point; she could easily pass as a young man if the need called for it and the blood would ensure that no one would recognize her offhand as a foreigner nor as a woman.

She bundled the French uniform and looked for a quick place to stash it. While Beatrice was loathe to part with it, she knew very well that it couldn't be found while she was aboard or else they would suspect a stowaway in their midst. She wished she could just toss it overboard but how was she going to get back to the top of the deck and dispose of the clothes unnoticed. And what of the prisoners? Would the men from the _Acheron _recognize her and expose her as a fraud? Who was still alive, she wondered… she didn't allow herself to dwell and immediately recalled the fire near the men. If she could burn the clothing, there would be no evidence left to indicate her presence.

She returned the lamp and salve to their original positions and silently returned to the narrow hall between the cabins. The wounded were becoming more numerous as the men limped in or were carried by their mates from the upper decks. Beatrice nonchalantly went to the fire and tossed in the bundle. No one questioned her actions as she watched the fire consume what had been her world for the last few months.

Did her actions make her a traitor? If her countrymen ever found out what she was planning, there was the very real fear that she would be guillotined. Perhaps if she were to find out information on the British naval fleet or their movements abroad she could prove her worth. But what if she were caught? Then she would have to face the British with their noose-happy penchant for hanging spies… Maybe she could still surrender now and just be paroled with the rest of the _Acheron_'s crew… but then how long would it take for her to go home? Would she even get to go home?! Who would parole her? The French navy? Her distant relatives? She couldn't risk wasting away in a prison cell on the far side of the world.

It was becoming crowded in the make-shift ward and though her instincts told her to stay and help the wounded men, her sense of nationalism fought it. Where was their doctor? Had he died in the mêlée above? That meant that there was no one to tend to the injured on either ship… She wasn't a doctor; she hadn't taken any Hippocratic oath. One less British soldier was a damn good thing in her mind.

But listening to the men around her, bloodied and broken, she couldn't see any difference in them than she would in any Frenchman. But should she really nurse to health those that had just killed so many of her people? Should she allow them to get back in to the condition to kill who knows how many more?

Okay, she reasoned, if no one began to treat the sailors around her, she would have to suck up her pride and tend to them herself regardless of the consequences. Survival was key… and perhaps, as the Capitaine had done, the British commander would allow her to remain aboard as long as she was of use to his crew.

Minutes past by as the men were deposited below, a few of which she could see were already dead. Others had grievous injuries that would need tending before night fell but many others had superficial saber and rifle wounds that merely seemed shed blood in profuse quantities but had little impact upon a person's health. At least she knew where some of the surgical equipment now lay.

When at last, her patience had worn thin waiting for the medical provider's presence, battle-weary officers and young men in uniform began to descend with a number of seamen carrying a young midshipman. From the grave faces of the group, she surmised that he was already dead. Among the officers, she noted that one stood tall and had a fairly obvious air of command about him - the Captain, peut-être? He was very different than she had imagined him to be… he was strongly built and looked as though he could pick up three men without a thought as to their collective weight. His somber eyes were blue and his face had a gentleness that belied the scars and frown upon it. From his tender handling of his fallen officer, she knew there was another side to him… and perhaps all of the officers on board this ship; they couldn't be that different from their counterparts aboard the _Acheron_. However, the bloodied sabers at their sides spoke volumes as well…

Another man appeared on the steps behind the procession directing more men into the hold. He was wiry and pale which seemed very out of place among the sun-burned men accustomed to the sea. Though he wore no uniform, his bloodied clothing were those of a gentleman and he had an ease about him that indicated as much. He moved past the officers with a grave expression upon his face, before moving in a steady pace towards the fireplace where she sat and examining the wounded men in turn and determining which had to receive immediate treatment.

Confidant that this pallid man was the _Syren_'s doctor, Beatrice visibly relaxed and allowed the men to mull about, hopeful that he and the ship's officers would be too distracted to notice her presence. The doctor, however, noticed only a spare hand that was not desperately wounded.

"Boy," he yelled, calling her attention. "Fetch that damnable Higgins, would you." Unsure of her accent, she nodded sharply and attempted to make her way up to the gun deck without incident. Trying to scale a path over a fallen man, she lost her balance and lurched forward suddenly, falling right into the chest of a young officer whose round cheeks that were still flushed from the heat of battle. He was notably jostled but was not overtly angry as he helped her regain her balance. Instantly remembering herself, she caught hold of a lock of hair, mumbled 'sir' and proceeded to inch past the rest of the officers as fast as she possibly could before scampering through the main hatch.

Men were scattered at various points around the gun deck and with slight hesitation, she approached a group of battle-swarthy men that were assessing the damage of a cannon called "Willful Death" that currently lay askew on it's side.

"Higgins?"

"He's topside, lad - tending to the Frenchies." The man didn't see her scowl as she ascended to the forecastle of the small frigate.

She didn't expect the sight that met her eyes….

* * *

**AN:** Sorry to stop here but I felt it very necessary to update before I began my homework and it just happens to force an awkward pause in the action. 

Thank you so very much **Kayla**; you are my first reviewer ever! lol! I am so very glad that you enjoyed the first chapter though. I have found that I have an unusually slow method to my writing and I was afraid that this would scare people off. I just try to incorporate every single action and thought of the characters into the work and I feel as though it sometimes makes the tale thoroughly bogged down. I hope I have not disappointed though. In all honesty, Beatrice is an unusual character for me to write and thanks to your review, I feel as though I have not strayed far from what I had originally envisioned her to be.

And as for the pairing with the doctor… I have definitely been toying with the idea - especially considering their "medical connection!" But it is still a gray issue for me…. Thanks to the venerable Russell Crowe, I find myself enamored with the idea of a pairing with the Captain; but Dr. Maturin and 2nd Lt. Mowett also have major romantic potential in this story (alas that Pullings could not have stayed aboard in the movie and thus been present in this rendition as well :P). I know it sounds rather odd, but I am simply letting the story write itself. I am unsure who Beatrice will ultimately become attracted to - only time and plot circumstances will tell. :)


	3. Qui se fait brebis

Chapter 3: Qui se fait brebis...

The forecastle of the _Acheron _lay in ruins. It was difficult for Beatrice to distinguish anything familiar in the blood-bathed rubble as she precariously wobbled her way aboard the smoldering frégate. Aloft, she could still see dead crew members dangling precariously from the fallen sheets above, waiting to be retrieved while British marines and a number of warrant officers went about the task of directing the traffic of the wounded below. Picking her way around the pools of blood, she followed the procession hoping to find her charge forthwith and head back to the British warship before she was recognized.

Entering the bowels of the ship, she could hear the moans of death and smell of decay and gunpowder throughout. Knowing exactly where the sickbay was located, she kept her head down as she hustled past the queues of men and marines and descended the ladder to the berth level. Blood and sand littered the four corners of the deck and she had difficulties walking past the injured and dead without slipping into anyone. Sheets separating portions of the deck also made it difficult to find the British surgeon.

"Dr. De Vigny, your help if you please!"

Beatrice stood momentarily in shock. Had she heard correctly? She moved closer to the origin of the call and lifted the sheet. A portly man, sweating profusely over a struggling patient looked expectantly at the sheet opposite from her position. As if in slow motion, Beatrice watched as the sheet was moved aside by a dark-haired man whose once flowing shirt was now soaked with sweat and gore. Le Capitaine? The world jolted for her just then as she distantly recognized her Capitaine administering aid to his convulsing crewman only to drop his head slowly in shame as the struggling ceased and the man passed on.

"There was nothing that could be done for him, Monsieur," he said submissively to the British surgeon. "Please help me tend to the others who still have a chance."

As they rose to their feet, his eyes widened as he realized her standing there. Her look spoke volumes…. Contempt, revulsion, and utter hatred seethed through her and she fought to control herself.

"Higgins," she hissed through clenched teeth. The corpulent man panted as he turned around to regard her. "The doctor sends for you. It is quite urgent." He swallowed hard and wiped his brow before puttering off, leaving the pair to face off.

"Capitaine Guiscard, your orders," she shouted in French, trembling with anger and fear as the "docteur" approached her with a menacing look all his own.

"Soyez silencieux," he demanded in a forced whisper, looking to the sheets as though he expected the Marines to storm his position. "We all must do what we deem necessary in battle, De Vigny. You disguised yourself to survive - as did I; you are no better than myself."

"I am no coward, _sir_."

"I will not stand for insubordination from any of my crew - girl or no. You had best use your tongue wisely before it is cut from your mouth." Her eyes narrowed and she wished to God that she had strength enough to strike down the man before her.

"We are fighting a war to ensure the survival of our country, Mme. Leave me to my office - you are dismissed."

"Sir, I- I am no coward. I am a Frenchwoman through and through and my loyalty, no matter my uniform will always be to France. Your office may be here on your ship but I am bound to you no longer. I will fulfill my duty to the Emperor - you will see."

"And just what do you plan to do disguised as a British seaman," he spat. "Undo the knots on their riggings? Spit in their grog? You are useless - it would have better if you had just died in the battle."

"At least I have a plan," Beatrice coughed, tears of misery forcing their way to her eyes. "What of you, sir? Do you think you can retake your ship single-handedly? Look around you! Nearly all of your men are dead or wounded and you will soon be paroled in the closest port within the week. How can you possibly hope to overcome such odds?" She knew she had hit a nerve when the Capitaine, flushed with anger, made a move to strike her. She closed her eyes tight, waiting for the blow that never came.

"Mme. De Vigny: remove yourself from my ship." She opened her eyes, surprised to see the Capitaine, his shoulders slumped facing away from her.

"Sir." Wiping the tears from her eyes, Beatrice turned to leave the ill-fated ship. Before she left, however, she turned and faced the Capitaine once more.

"Chacun est artisan de sa fortune.... Bon chance, mon Capitaine."

"Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange," came the hushed reply as the once-distinguished seaman exited into an adjacent partition to help out where he could. Beatrice stood solemnly, wondering if she should stay and aid him, but knew that any help she could provide would be unwanted and received with open hostility at this point. Thoughts of Renard made her linger longer on the sick deck, but having come up empty in her search and not wishing to run into the Capitaine again, she returned to the British warship and prepared.

…………

Staying within the crew's berth was easier said than done. With so many eyes watching and wondering as the cries of the wounded rung out across the deck, Beatrice found it difficult to go unnoticed. The quarters were so tight she found the entire ordeal was bringing on a fever. Many times more the doctor ordered her on small errands fetching things or people about the length of the ship. Crew pleaded to her for water. Lieutenants in need of various things such as the number of wounded currently below, a candle with which to light the slow-match artillery wicks or to locate a midshipman that could not be found were asked of her and a number of others who still seemed sea-worthy. By the late afternoon she had run herself ragged over every inch of the frigate.

The Captain had also made several trips down to the sick-deck to look in on the condition of his crew and to speak briefly with the ship's main surgeon before going topside to assess the damage to the _Acheron _and his own marred ship (which she finally came to realize was the British frigate _Surprise_) in the fading light of day. She passed him on more than one occasion, his face always seemingly strong and undaunted in the face of the day's turmoil, but containing, too, an undertone of concern and worry that belied his resilient front.

When the night finally fell on the two men-of-war, the pace of the action below deck slowed and Beatrice was allowed a reprieve. Not wanting to spend another minute in the cramped confines allotted, she wearily climbed the ladder to the upper deck and watched with mild interest as the cannons were being refitted with their wheels. Before long she found herself pacing slowly along the larboard gangway and staring out to sea. The sounds of repairs being done to the Acheron could be heard clearly through the dark watch. She breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air, tasting of the damp saltiness of it on her tongue and sighed.

Life was going to be very different for her now. The Capitaine, however irate he may have been, was right… She who makes herself an ewe, the wolf will eat. She was making herself the ewe… she was making herself vulnerable to discovery, imprisonment or worse by following this course. Was it really worth it? Her loyalties lie not only to France but to herself; would a sacrifice on her part for the good of her country really mean so much? Who would benefit from this ruse if she were to die today or the next? Technically she wasn't even aboard - if she were to die, there would be no one to mourn her passing. No one to remember her life or her risks for Emperor and country… she was alone in this world and she was so very exposed because of it.

Her hip wound was beginning to plague her and her sea legs were weakening with what she assumed to be the ever constant rocking of the ship and she searched the deck for a place out of foot to relax. However, aboard a British vessel there is no idle sitting and she grew conscious of the stares from the Marines and officers on watch. Waiting for the most opportune moment, she slipped up to the quarterdeck and down into the mainchains without detection. Her vantage point was most lovely as she could see the lapping waves aglow in the candlelight that poured out from the great cabin. So entranced was she by the gentle rocking of the ship, that even among the coiled chains and with a mind tormented by apprehension, she fell into a deep slumber.

The groggy young woman woke up the next morning to the shouts above.

"You there! Boy! What the devil are you doing down there?"

"Sir," she croaked, her voice hoarse from the exposure to the sea winds. "I was just sitting here and I drifted off. Sorry, sir."

"Well, climb on up then before one of the officers sees you." Her blurred eyes finally recognized the sight of the doctor with a disparaging expression on his face. Well, she surmised, maybe that was his normal expression since that was all she had ever seen. A gray dawn was slowly washing the ship in a bath of muted light as she climbed up with utmost haste and murmured a 'yessir, thank you, sir' before hustling off of the quarterdeck and below.

Through the cannon ports on the upper deck she could see that the Acheron was being made ready to sail and she revised her story to accommodate. If she were found, it would aid her greatly if there were no witnesses able to provide evidence to the contrary to her tale. She walked over it in her mind, working out the kinks and trying to come up with a believable concoction.

Before long, she noted that the crew was filing up to the main deck, some of them carrying what looked like body bags. She quietly accompanied the procession, noting that all of the men - able hands and officers alike - were freshly scrubbed and wearing their best shirts and uniforms for the occasion. On the _Acheron_, now a comfortable distance away, the other half of the _Surprise_'s crew stood and showed their respects along the railings. She held back behind the large grouping of men as the bags were placed in order of seniority and the remaining threads tied. A body was hoisted onto a ramp and a large British flag draped down upon it.

The captain began a short sermon and read off the names and positions of the deceased. Beatrice had never heard the passage in English before and listened closely as it was echoed by the crew around her. Some of the younger boys were crying… and the Captain had a particular pause when he got to the name of a midshipman named Calamy. As soon as the names were done, the bodies were ceremoniously deposited into the sea and the crew upon both ships stood for a minute of silence.

The Captain dismissed the men and the crew upon the _Acheron _began lowering a small boat away on the main. It took only a short while for the officers to cross the small divide and climb the larboard accommodation ladder. A young officer, no more than thirty by the looks of him, approached the Captain and exchanged words for a few minutes. Beatrice, having no clue what was to happen next, mulled about with the remainder of the off-duty crew who now shouted crude jokes to their mates on the _Acheron_. When the Captain and the officer had said all they needed to say, the latter went off with a boyish grin upon his scarred face and a chorus struck up:

"Huzzah for Captain Pullings! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"

As the man went back to his place upon the small rowboat that would take him to his first command, Beatrice could not help but feel a twinge of sadness for him. Captain or no, he would never command the _Acheron _as long as Guiscard was alive. The _Surprise_'s Captain had all but sealed his first officer's death warrant with this commission…

Within the hour, Beatrice watched with finality as the _Acheron _cut waters destined for refitting in a port along the west coast of South America. The afternoon call sent many below decks for their dinner and grog rations and though Beatrice had not eaten in what she deemed an eternity, she was having trouble summoning the courage to go below. When would she be discovered, she wondered. Would it work to her advantage if she just came forward with her story or would it be best for her to take her chances for the next three or more months? Who would she tell - who could she trust - who would be gullible enough to believe her?

Questions kept her mind in a tumultuous state until the bell sounded at eight chimes announcing the end of the watch. She trailed after the skeleton crew that went down for their food and was able to attain her own meal in a short time. She declined her cup serving of grog though, instead elected to wait in a queue for some water. Unlike the rest of the men, she was still unwashed and covered in blood and grime.

She went to the upper deck, opposite the great cabin and ate her meal amid the great cannon, listening to the raucous laughter of the Captain and his close chaps. Perhaps after they were through she could pull one of the drunken officers aside, convince him of her yarn and leave the rest to fate. Better now then never - and certainly far better to appear as though she were not attempting to conceal her "truth" from the men she was supposedly grateful to.

When the festivities came to an end soon after nightfall, the officers began trailing out and up the ladder to the top deck. She quickly singled out the cherub-faced man she had run into the day before, hoping that he had imbibed enough liquor to make her task an easy one.

…………

**AN:** Okies… stopping there. :P This chapter was really just a pause of sorts until I could get to the real meat of the matter - so to speak.

Coming up: Beatrice finds herself confronted with some vary harsh realities - will she be able to worm her way out of the web of lies she has spun?

French proverbs:

_Chacun est artisan de sa fortune. Each is a craftsman of his own fortune._

_Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange. She who makes herself an ewe, the wolf will eat. _

I could not determine if the Capitaine had been named in the movie… so, after much thought and research, he became Cpt. Guiscard. Guiscard is actually a French name meaning a "wily or crafty man; a shifter." It just seems so apropos. :)

Thanks again to the reviewers: 

**TheMusingFit:** My disclaimers and warnings had me a little skeptical too… I had just wanted to get all of my bases covered in the event that the story became a flat-out gushy romance (which I love lol!) that was straying too far from the books or movie. I am glad you like the story so far though - it just makes me all smiley that you think it's good! lol

**Miss Flossy:** You're so energetic, I can see how it would be difficult for you to wait… lol! I have that same problem when I ingest too much caffeine. Oh, that soda didn't taste so good. :P But you are right, Mowett is always in need of some "action," as it were… but I am not sure how the story will play out. Point in fact: I hadn't expected to write such a confrontation between Beatrice and the Capitaine, but it turned out that way - much to my dismay. I had been hoping for a more genteel approach myself, but when I was writing, I began to think of how it would be for Beatrice to see someone assume the guise of her father in such a cowardly manner and it seemed that such a altercation was inevitable. I have not written too far ahead, but so far it would seem that Mowett is faring well in his interactions with Beatrice (though, so too are Aubrey and Maturin - it is still too early to tell!) But here's hoping for another Mowett romance - if only for your sake. crosses fingers :)


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